


lycanthropy

by teenspock



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pon Farr, its very vague, prose, werewolf!spock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 00:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16418990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenspock/pseuds/teenspock
Summary: Kirk finds that Pon Farr is a lot easier when he's finding metaphors in the affliction.hell yeah happy halloween





	lycanthropy

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at two a.m. on a whim and i've honestly never felt quite so alive
> 
>  
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6uFFb0eceDuohWRDE156zj  
> mini werespock playlist bonus

At five a.m. he is collapsing onto the vermilion sheets crumpled across the bed, his hand out to touch the floor, to keep him from tipping off of one side. 

He’s allowed himself to fall without taking into account what will break it, allowed himself to fall without regard for the one who might break him, but his outstretched hand smacks against the floor, slick with the sweat of it, bending his wrist ninety degrees. 

For a moment he stares at the ground below him, swallowing the adrenaline as hands wrap around him from behind and drag him ashore. His eyes go up to the bedside as he is righted, and catch the bright red light in the dark room that says it is five am.

He is slamming his back to a tree, his heart beating against his clothes as if it will spring through the fabric, and the bark scraping the skin of his back as he slides down among the roots, hands at his mouth, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. The moon exposing him through the trees, a bright white light in the dark that says he isn’t through. 

Ancient myths of werewolves. The stories run through his mind, but nothing about the cures.

A twig snaps behind him, heavy, approaching footsteps, and he whirls around.

The sheets part around him as he is returned to the shore, saved from his certain demise, and he doesn’t repress the smile of gratitude as he is returned to the carnage, the arms moving up around him until there is a body again over him, the pressure of chest and forehead and teeth holding him safely to the mattress. Then he is released, and flipped, and he catches dark, heavy eyes for a split second before the weight is over him again, two hands that seem to vibrate with heat finding his own, the catlike, pointing talons cutting briefly into his wrists. He has been found out. Extracted from his hiding spot. The smile fades and he gasps as his head falls back over the edge of the bed, again finding that ominous glow from the bedside clock.

At six a.m. he is pursued over the open expanse of a field, one of the endless seas of wheat in Iowa, his breath staggering as they trample the weak stems of waist-high crop, cutting identical paths through the star-peppered darkness. It becomes a game, an exhausting, dangerous game, and he stops in his tracks, laughing out loud when the crushing weight of inhuman bone density stumbles directly into him and sends them both keeling over with their hands pulling eachother down. 

_Physical exhaustion,_ that came from somewhere. He remembers images of chained lycanthropes in their basements, out in some secluded building, cell bars that confined them as they writhed through the effects of the full moon, a shotgun in the hands of their guardian until they exhausted themselves.

He is first up, sparing a quick glance upwards at the moon mounting its zenith, before a hand is at his ankle.

Feeling the open mouth against his neck, the shaking, gasping release of tension in the body tangled with his, he takes a deep breath and repeats that point of physical exhaustion before upending the tangle and bringing that form crashing down underneath his hands. Taking full advantage of the momentary lapse in power, he steals the lead, forcing their lips together, stifling the desperate, hitching breath back into the throat, the howl into the form of a infantile whimpering as he grasps between them for the object of his newfound theory.

In some isolated building on rural Earth he corners the monster, pressing the barrel of the gun into the rising chest, and looking dead into the blood red eyes that still contend with him for possession. Hand down in that space between them, he presses the cold ring of metal into the exposed skin, pushing until his back is at the wall. Back in the material plane, where each object surrounding their nocturnal struggle is not the thin trunk of a tree but another billow of the dark, red curtains that cover them on one complete side, he is slicking their skin with liquid that seems to freeze against their feverish heat and clamping one hand over the mouth that cries out like a wolf chained to a basement floor. 

For a moment he stills, stomach turning as he fears for a moment he caused there to be legitimate pain behind that cry, but the hips underneath him roll forwards despite it, and he lets it slide. All in the name of that theory, physical exhaustion. Medieval Europe considered exorcism - extracting the wolf from within - or piercing the hands with nails. There was also the part about metal objects, metal being a kind of pacifier for the dark spirit inside. He raises the barrel of the gun and slides it across the forehead. Now that he has the upper hand, he allows a little wandering of the mind.

At seven a.m. he is keeping a steady rhythm within him despite his own growing fatigue, hand pressing him softly against the mattress, and spares a long glance over the carnage below him. The body laid before him looks rather as if it has been attacked by wolves than possessed by one, with small scratches - mostly self-inflicted - here and there on the white skin and a sheen of sweat not exclusively his, the glazed, still ravenous look on his face half-concealed by one wrist flung up across it, and the hair a hopeless, tangled mess.

He leans forwards to the parted lips and tastes metal in the veridian marks dug into them, takes each of the hands and presses his thumbs into the centers of the palms in that rough way that makes him jerk upwards against him and begin to collapse again into hitching, breathless sobs that begin to carry notes of more insistence. He takes the gun from between them, lays it aside as he crumples against the walls of that room, and wraps their bodies together with one hand outstretched to break the fall. Light between the rafters. He looks up and it is seven-thirty, the circle of white light paling in the sky above, what was that German myth, he wonders, pulling them both back into the cover of those vermilion sheets, the body under him still trembling with exertion, still grasping at his wrists for either security or some lingering need to remain shackled there. His lips forming the syllables of his name, in that breathy, monosyllabic way he often did that almost made it sound like French.

At eight a.m. he is smiling again as it occurs to him the German idea, after a long while of sitting astride him and regulating his breathing, and he rocks forward on his knees to meet his face, their foreheads pressing against one another, and he kisses his face, still astounded by the heat of it, crossing the bone of his cheek and jaw to rest his lips against the curve of his ear, where he finally enunciates him first words since he relinquished them in his haze at approximately three am. _Spock._ The breath below him stops short, this time not from exertion butin a quiet, conscious gasp. _Spock._ He looks away for a moment, grateful that his eyes do not burn with blood any longer, and have begun to return to their reflective, starlit warmth. Spock?

At five p.m. he wakes up next to a warm Spock wrapped in vermilion sheets, not an ounce of adrenaline visible on the side of his face he can see from behind him, arms wrapped around him lest he fall in the night. He didn’t. They are safe, the both of them, in the wake of trampled brush and a multitude of scratches and bruises, under the cover of a rising, waning moon. Safe, that is, until the next full moon. One rarely sees a full moon in deep space. It is ironic, but often true. Everything goes by too fast, even this moment, watching someone else sleep. Like they were running through a forest, and then a wheatfield, and then he was cornering him in some abandoned building, stringing cures together until the violent, hardened exterior fell away and left him with a bundle of exhausted, wet, amnesiac Vulcan. And as much as the pursuit may thrill him, nothing surpassed that weight in his arms, the soft look of recognition when it had begun to fade, that monster within him Kirk compared to a lycanthropy, the occasional visitor to his mind that at once terrified and excited, but never surpassed the permanent resident. He is hoisting the body onto his shoulders, taking him home.

At seven pm he is waking up, a full twenty-four hours since it began, glazed and quiet, and he nearly falls of the bed when he bolts upright to meet him.


End file.
